


A Bit of an Adventure, maybe.

by Giveusakiss4132



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - School, Gen, John Plays Rugby, Kidlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2343359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giveusakiss4132/pseuds/Giveusakiss4132
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre slash occasional fluff John and Sherlock friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of an Adventure, maybe.

Up.

 

Over.

 

Around.

 

Left, right, semi circle, up up climb as high as you can and then JUMP!

 

Shimmy twelve times. Wiggle three, and pop through. 

 

That was how Sherlock Holmes, of 17 Dartmouth Circle escaped every day. The city he lived in is not important, only that it is so big it can swallow him up, and so small he knows it without a map. 

 

The people he lives with are even less important, only that they are so big that he hates them, and so small that they do not understand why. But formalities are formalities, and Sherlock has introduced them enough that he can do it very quickly, and with minimal fuss. There is his father’s mother, who is pinched about the face and grey everywhere but her hair, which is bright red and only scared him when he was very small. There is Aunt Elizabeth, who is old enough to live somewhere else, and is only pinched in the face, as the rest of her is round. There is Caroline, who “deals with him”, and is soft and smells like roses and is not his mother in the least.

 

Then there is Mother, who lives in the beautiful vase next to his bed until he was seven, and he nearly spilled her all over the carpet, and now she lives in the beautiful vase on the very sturdy mantle above the fireplace in Sherlock’s bedroom. 

 

Father is somewhere else. 

 

But they’re not important, except for Mother, who was important but then became obsolete. Obsolete is a word in Tutor Richards Very Large and Expensive Don’t Drop That, Boy book. It has drawings next to words, and tells you what they mean. 

 

Obsolete: No longer produced or used; out of date. 

 

That fit Mother perfectly. She was no longer used, or there. When he showed his Father’s Mother, she nodded and gave him a chocolate. 

 

It was too sticky, but one must pretend to enjoy the gifts one receives in front of others, so he chewed for five minutes and swallowed it down and Caroline gave him milk and sympathy. Sympathy is when someone feels bad for someone else.

 

He feels bad for Caroline, because he knows he is a Difficult Child, and Too Stubborn By Far. 

 

He has sympathy for her. 

 

When he told his Father’s Mother this, she gave Caroline a chocolate, and Sherlock got her the milk. They helped each other out like that.

 

There was Mycroft, who was his brother. But Mycroft went away and hasn’t phoned or visited or done anything interesting in ages, so he can be obsolete as well, as far as Sherlock was concerned. 

 

Sherlock was just at the shimmy shimmy part when the door bell rang. It was loud, and echoed especially in the attic, where Sherlock was escaping. Sherlock clapped his hands to his ears and puffed out his chest and stomach as far as he could, so that he didn’t drop out of the hole in the floor and have to start shimmying all over again. When Caroline answered the door, and Sherlock heard Headmaster Cork’s voice, he shimmied double time. 

 

A visit from the Headmaster was never good, and Sherlock knew there were several reasons why he was getting one. Perhaps the incident with the student paper revealing just what sort of meat was covered with gravy last wednesday. Sherlock personally decided it was cat, and ten year three boys cried when he told them. He even made meowing noises.

 

Or the difficulties he experienced when he tried to start his car when he left school today. 

 

Or, if Sherlock was especially unlucky (and he usually was), he was here about that small matter in the chemistry lab.

 

The chemistry lab was an accident. He was inquisitive. Inquisitive is when you want to know everything. Sherlock is very inquisitive. 

 

The rest was because Mycroft had warned them not to give him unstructured study time with only ten other students and the librarian who seemed to do nothing but sleep and shush them.

 

Father’s Mother said if they knew something was coming, and they weren’t prepared, it was their own fault. Of course, she said that to the television, and not to Sherlock, but he took it to heart anyway. 

 

Sherlock wiggled three times and popped through to the connecting door to the other house, which was empty because it was haunted (Sherlock was sure to make ‘woooooo’ sounds every few months, or whenever the bank put up a shiny ‘For Sale’ sign) and rushed down the stairs before he figured if they thought he was gone, they’d look outside and he’d have to face the music.

 

Sherlock was never particularly fond of music, especially when the chorus was yelling at him. He did, however, like the violin, though he’d never let on. 

 

So he ducked into one of the rooms on the second floor and sneezed away a cloud of dust as he opened the squeaky floor board and pulled out a book.

 

An hour later (it was the lab, for sure!) a creaky car pulled away and Sherlock made his way out of the house and over to John’s house. He was his older friend, four years up from Sherlock’s year five, and they never talked at school, unless someone was being unkind to Sherlock, and John showed up like magic in his rugby jacket and scared them off. 

 

He had blonde hair and couldn’t seem to find clothes that weren’t ripped or hideous and was on scholarship. 

 

Sherlock was going to marry him, probably. Then he could live here, instead of 17 Dartmouth Circle, and maybe he’d take Caroline too, if she behaved herself. 

 

“Want supper?” John asked, mouth half full as he answered the door. 

 

Sherlock grabbed a plate and a roll and kissed John’s mother on her cheek, because she insisted upon it, even though Sherlock did not like people touching him, and vice versa. There were worse cheeks to kiss, he supposed, and the stew smelled like potato and gravy and good meat and nothing at all like onion, so he’d suffer through a little kissing.

 

“‘eadmaster came,” he said miserably through a chunk of roll. Father’s Mother would faint. He stuffed another piece in with a stretched smile. 

 

“Cause of the meat?” He shook his head no, as John’s mother inquired “what meat?” but didn’t expect an answer. 

 

“The chem lab?” Another shake. 

 

“Not her car!” A shrug, that was probably a bit of it. Who knew putting a open can on tuna in an exhaust pipe would do so much damage? The smell was gratifying, though. Gratifying was when something made you happy. 

 

“The chem lab?” A head nod. 

 

John’s mother pulled both their plates away and asked “what chem lab?”

 

Sherlock muttered something about green gasses and accident and fainting boys not being made of sturdier stuff. 

 

John’s mother asked what she was going to do with him, and replaced his plate with a sigh. 

 

“I’ve got some clothes that might fit you still, if you want to sleep over?” John offered. 

 

Of course he wanted to sleep over. But the couch was lumpy and hurt his back if slept on it, so he bravely shook his head and said he’d go back when they were all sleeping.

 

Then John and he watched telly until midnight, and he slept on the couch anyway.

 

John’s Mother put a blanket on him, just like Caroline did. 

 

Neither one was his mother, but oh well.


End file.
